On The Part Of The Fore Poem by Wesongah David

What have I to give,
For the ills of a whole generation,
Filtered to the sane and in relativity,
A deuce discarded truth of a heaven's marrow.
Seeking the glories of tomorrow,
In a world filled with stinking filth,
To high heavens a half eaten human hand
Void and please likened to a hallowed plea.
It might be for the sane of it- unto records,
But a whole generation died with the birth of our fathers.

It is not the way it is to be,
For the little daughters fathoming a free society,
The dreams of un-begotten daughters,
Heavenlies of our unborn daughters,
The mists of the mothers' eyes,
Singing a song-one for sorrow,
Borrowed from the hallows of the exodus,
By the rivers of Babylon and unto the eyes of the sages,
'How shall we sing....in foreign lands? '
Influences of a rotten generation,
Left to thrive at birth of our fathers.

To the crystals of mortality
Bequeathed unto laces of immortality,
Raw and uncut-
On a precipice for a swallowed disaster,
And watching on from the low heavens,
Eyes filled with blood,
And hands of a mouth smirking in satisfaction,
'On whose blood have you just feasted? '
Of which an answer is blown in the wind,
And a proposal to clear thy eyes,
And see,
The death of yet another generation,
Inspired by the death of another.